


Laying Groundwork

by LunaCanisLupus_22



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, And there's werewolves, But basically harmless, Cheating, Clubbing, Crappy Exes, Derek is a broody Bouncer, Drunken Harassment, Everyone is a werewolf except Scott, F/M, Getting over a break-up, M/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, People have a thing for Stiles' mouth, Sexual Humor, Stiles wants in his pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:44:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCanisLupus_22/pseuds/LunaCanisLupus_22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His expression isn’t much to go by but the entire clubs howling gets louder at his appearance and Stiles literally pops a boner watching the guy’s big hands wrestle with the microphone stand. </p><p> </p><p>Or the one where Scott and Stiles go clubbing and there's this broody Bouncer out to get Stiles-</p><p>Or get into his pants. Thank God it's the latter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laying Groundwork

# Laying Groundwork

It’s probably whilst waiting in line to get into the club that Stiles finally comes to the acceptable conclusion that he’s going to die alone.

It’s not one of those lethargic, blinking stupidly into awareness kind of conclusions either. There’s nothing gradual about the forever alone! epiphany that leaves his heart pumping erratically and limbs feeling like they need to go in all directions at once.

To be fair, it’s probably the leftover half a bottle of whiskey that he and Scott downed on the trek over there, thanking the lucky stars that a club actually does exist within walking distance of their dorm, even if it dares to label itself something as cheesy as Wolfsbane.

There’s even a cute little wolf howling at the universe underneath the club’s glowing incandescent sign, and Stiles figures not only is that a symbol of his preconceived lone wolf status since the fateful day he emerged from the womb, but it pretty much embodies the way he thinks he should be feeling right now.

Howling at the universe with only the slightest tang of bitterness. That’s usually what follows discovering he’s been cheated on for the past six months straight. Or that’s what his preconceived idea of it is, he hasn’t really been in a serious enough relationship to be cheated on before.

And that’s probably why life is sucking ass at the moment.

“You’re thinking about it again. Aren’t you?” Scott demands beside him, politely ignoring the asshole trying to edge around his broad shoulders to get ahead in the line.

Stiles tilts his chin in warning, like 'hey dude that dickbag is cutting in' but Scott merely shrugs and sticks out an elbow, popping the guy casually in the gut. He backs off with a pained oomph and Stiles resists the urge to smirk or perform a little victory dance at the fact that his best friend won’t take cutsies without some serious retaliation.

“I can see your face, dude,” Scott continues knowingly. “That’s the eternal-pain-and-suffering face.”

Stiles stumbles slightly as the line pushes forward again, a surprising amount of people gathered around for a club he’s never even heard of before, but he regains his balance and goes for the perfunctory eye roll, ignoring the pumping music that seems to reverberate with his frantic heartbeat.

“And here I thought I’d rearranged it specifically for the eternal-constipation face,” he mutters. “How else will I express my bowel movements now?”

Scott snorts and nudges him forward just as a fairly enthusiastic older woman boldly aims to accidentally- but mostly on purpose- punch him in the throat. The adjustment helps him avoid premature death, but the line erupts into confusion over who’s trying to take advantage of the momentary lapse in Stiles’ defensive line until Scott starts elbowing all over again. It’s surprisingly dirty fighting for a generic run of the mill unsavoury club, and Stiles feels like he should expect more shit from the lines at comic con than this dive of a joint.

“Jesus,” he announces, without lowering his voice when the dirty line jumpers have finally got up close and personal with Scott’s humerus and backed off some. “What’s in this club? Candy flavoured strippers?”

“You’re kidding,” the older woman who tried to murder him only seconds earlier barks. “Why are you even here if you’re not trying to get Hale?”

Scott blinks his intoxicated confusion and Stiles just blinks. “Uh, is that some kind of drug? Because my dad’s a Sheriff…”

The cougar lady lets out a disgusted sound and tries for the very not-accidental throat punch again, only Scott is sober enough to yank him out of harms way by the scruff of his shirt. Thank God. The last thing Stiles needs crushing his already bruised ego is getting beaten up by a menopausal cougar.

“Hey now,” Scott chides, instead of what Stiles believes would be a rightly deserved ‘step off bitch!’ but apparently for Scott less is more because it only takes those two words for the lady to stop swinging.

“I guess you’ll see,” she mutters darkly, lowering her arms and that’s all the great wisdom that she has to offer on the matter because she moves off to start punching other unsuspecting line holders in the throat. Stiles is extremely okay with watching her go.

“This is the worst possible establishment for getting over a break up,” he announces to her retreating back. “Moving on should not involve grievous bodily harm.”

Scott only offers a weirdly half-hearted shrug, before they finally meet the security guard at the front of the line without any other attempts on their lives.

He’s got that whole arrogant badass persona going for him and Stiles even finds it in himself to resent the badass name tag attached to a broad chest, reading Boyd.

“Bouncer Boyd, huh,” he mutters once Boyd has silently checked their ID. “Bet you have lots of wild nights.”

“No,” Boyd replies, pretty rudely actually, even Stiles’ buzzed brain and noodly limbs can tell that much before he waves them through the heavy set door that opens up like they’re stepping into a bank vault.

It’s pretty cool, entry wise although Stiles cannot for the life of him figure out what bank vaults have to do with werewolves, but understands it must be some kind of hipster, indie expressionist statement that would make him look extremely stupid and drunk to question out loud so he keeps his mouth shut.

The numbers immediately overwhelm them, bodies pushing hard in every which way and he hastily snags Scott’s elbow so they don’t get separated before he can get properly drunk.

Only apparently that’s Scott’s secret weapon arm because Stiles instantly gets shit from all sides and he’s going to bruise so badly tomorrow. Nobody seems to understand the concept of personal space or body hygiene, considering the sweaty chest that gets pressed up against his back, dampening his shirt.

Feeling decidedly not sweaty and slightly disgusted, Stiles drags Scott over to the bar to drown his sorrows in liquor.

They’re all waiting for him there as if they can somehow hone in on his whereabouts at all times and he manages a smile, one of the first of tonight, whilst Scott claps him on the back and heads over to talk to his ex Allison and her new boyfriend Isaac, leaving Stiles to wrap his arms around Lydia, then Danny but not Jackson because he’s a dick.

The mutual breakup is great because everyone can still hang out without it being weird, though Scott holding onto Isaac longer than necessary after hugging Allison, not so much. Stiles can just see the blatant potential for polyamory.

But he’s too grateful that Scott’s brought them all out for him, to dwell on that any further.

“Heard you were on the rebound,” Lydia yells in his ear just as Danny shoves a shot of something into his open hand. It’s some kind of miracle that he doesn’t spill it all over himself but he accepts it gratefully, ignoring the twinge of hurt when he starts thinking about why they're all here.

Scott leans over and helpfully smacks him on the back of the head, pretty hard actually, enough that Stiles nearly faceplants into Lydia’s open cleavage. She pushes him off as he hastily scrambles to avoid both her and Jackson’s wrath. The drink thankfully remains intact.

“I didn’t mean with me, Stiles,” Lydia barks just as Jackson pulls her into the protective crook of his arm like Stiles is known for attacking breasts with his face. He shrugs apologetically and downs the drink in his hand before Jackson beats him up.

Getting beaten up seems an appropriate segue into the shitty night he’s absolutely confident of having here. The alcohol burns on the way down, before settling into that muted, buzzed sensation stealing through his limbs and he licks his lips as a way of chasing the taste from his mouth.

Scott makes a don’t make the face, face at him so Stiles tries his best to look constipated instead.

“How’d you guys know?” he yells at them when he’s certain the danger has passed and Jackson isn’t in fact going to wail on him.

“Mass text,” Danny barely replies before this hulk of male model Adonis is descending upon him with highly sexual intent and whisking him off to the dance floor with bedroom eyes. Stiles watches them go with only a little pang of jealously.

Okay, he’s practically throwing daggers at Danny’s back for hooking up before he’s even had the chance to be drunkenly hit on by someone who’s like ‘God your eyes,’ or ‘Damn, those hands,’ or even “Such a pretty mouth, bet it’d look good wrapped around my cock.’

The bad part is that hey, sometimes Stiles doesn’t mind the idea of a mouthful of cock but that doesn’t mean that he wants it from every single asshole who takes the time to stare at his lips for a good ten minutes before deciding that merits a blowjob.

Sometimes Stiles gives really shitty blowjobs on purpose, just because he _can. ___

But tonight he wants to rebound, lie back sweaty and thoroughly fucked out and just not think about…

“Where’s Heather?” Jackson asks apropos of nothing because he’s getting so good at being a dickhead that it’s starting to become supernatural.

Stiles’ head snaps up at the name like a startled animal and he can’t take Allison frantically whispering about it in Jackson’s ear while Lydia scowls at him and slaps his bicep in reprimand.

“Drink,” he yells before pushing past them all to reach the bar, calculating if he can actually afford to drain the entire thing dry in one sitting.

Financial spoiler: he can’t.

The bartender’s this blonde bombshell. All long hair and tight fitting clothes and when she leans over the bench to yell at him for his order, of course he gets shoved face first into her breasts, tripping over the edge of a nearby stool as he goes flying.

She doesn’t seem to mind so much considering that she wraps a tight arm around his neck with a wild laugh and essentially forces him to motorboat her.

He splutters in surprise, hands finding purchase on the bar counter as he struggles to breathe and pull himself free of the sudden stranglehold from a total stranger. She laughs when he does and Stiles has the very unusual sensation of being taken advantage of.

“That was on the house,” she yells over the music. “But do it again and my boyfriend will kick your ass.”

She nods over at the unsmiling bouncer Boyd who’s now guarding the door inside and of course the guy is folding his arms, making his muscles bunch over his shirt as if he can explode out of them at any minute.

Stiles swallows heavily, wonders why he isn’t drunker because then getting his ass beaten will hurt a hell of a lot less.

“Um,” he replies eloquently before quickly avoiding Boyd’s hardass gaze that basically means he’s gonna be in trouble real soon.

“I need to get drunk,” he yells over the pumping music that seems to make his chest rattle. “Get me your strongest shit.”

The bombshell gives him this shit eating grin and moves away to get his drink with the purpose of one out to raise hell. It’s all of two seconds waiting for her return before this guy is pushing up against his ass like it’s spontaneous and puffing warm beer breath against the shell of his ear.

“God, your mouth…” he barely gets started before Stiles is pushing back and automatically smacking his fist into the guy's unprotected balls. It’s the unoriginality that’s really starting to piss him off. It's like they’re not even trying anymore.

The guy is hunched over swearing like a sailor when the girl returns with his drink and notices what’s happening.

Her eyes narrow and Stiles reckons he’s going to get booted, cockblocked, still sober and very unsatisfied in his lower regions before she grins at him and slides his drink across the counter delicately.

“You’re gonna regret this,” she yells looking pointedly at what she’s created which is a distinguishably brown mixture of death. She only glances in a mildly curious way at the guy clutching his aching balls.

“On the house,” she adds. “That asshole grabbed my tits earlier. Didn’t motorboat like the gentleman you are.”

Stiles is both flattered and afraid; something he senses is a pattern here.

“I’m Erica,” she says slapping at the man next to him who’s resorted to the desperation of reaching over the counter for his booze. “And if you’re not on your face in five minutes I have failed you.”

“Stiles,” he replies, tipping his drink in her direction and disappearing into the crowd before somebody else comes up and starts rambling on about his fingers.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

 

It doesn’t take him five minutes to get off his face drunk. To be fair, it probably takes about ten but he’s too plastered by then to even understand the concept of time let alone how much of it has passed.

He’s loose limbed and feeling fantastic among the other gyrating bodies on the dance floor, mainly because it’s too dark for people to pay close attention to him or his mouth and the strobe lights keep rippling colourfully across his eyelids.

He’s got a cute girl’s ass pressed wonderfully against his crotch when the howling starts. At first he thinks it some kind of newer shittier version of dubstep until the girl twists in his arms and literally _howls _into his mouth in a moderately hysterical way that enables a quick extraction before he dives hastily into the next available gap in the crowd.__

A long line of beautiful ladies walk onto the stage and they’re gorgeous of course they are, but Stiles’ interest doesn’t really perk up until a man strides purposefully toward them, shoulder’s hunched and entire body rigid as he sets up the microphone like it’s purposefully insulted his mother or something.

His expression isn’t much to go by, but the entire clubs howling gets louder at his appearance and Stiles literally pops a boner watching the guy’s big hands wrestle with the microphone stand.

He’s scowling by the time he’s finished, like he knows the attention is on his stubbled face or the way the muscles bunch in his arms when he bends over, showing off an ass Stiles would kill to be within metres of with his grabby hands.

The guy goes to storm off without a word of explanation, but a brunette who has to be related reaches out to grab at his arm and stop him. They engage in one of the most intense glaring sessions Stiles has ever had the pleasure of witnessing and he’s genuinely concerned there will be blood.

The guy must be another bouncer because he’s wearing the same tight fitting shirt as Boyd, only now it’s making it much harder for Stiles to keep his hand from lingering when he reaches down to casually adjust himself.

“So you are here for Hale, then?”

Throat Puncher is back and with a vengeance as she quickly clears the space between them and Stiles does not cower. Much.

“Who?” he yells over the music which is starting to get slower as the girls onstage start dancing and the one at the centre, who survived the death glare of pain from hottie security guard starts belting out Titanium in a surprisingly powerful voice.

Throat Puncher rolls her eyes and seizes his jaw, jerking his head in the direction of the security guard who’s now just standing on the edge of the dance floor, arms folded as he looks out for particularly drunk patrons, scowling at pretty much everything.

His glare seems enough to deter the flock of women and men who are already clamouring toward him for a chance to get in his pants. Those who don’t melt under his a thousand promises of pain stare only make it to the second round of interaction where they say some kind of opening line and he shuts them down with terrifying muscles and curt answers.

Stiles wants to know exactly what he says to get rid of them. Purely for research purposes only.

“That’s Hale,” Throat Puncher announces as if that hasn’t already been made pretty clear to him. “And close that pretty mouth.”

Stiles realises that he’s just standing in the middle of the dance floor, mouth hanging open and hastily shuts it. Bouncer Hale doesn’t even deign a reply to the girl about to plaster herself all over him, merely dodges with a swiftness Stiles didn’t think a mountain man could possess and encourages her forward with one arm, releasing her back into the crowd like he’s releasing a particularly small catch back into the ocean.

Stiles snorts in amusement because straight after there’s another to take her place.

He understands why, from afar Bouncer Hale looks ready to eat but he thinks closer up Stiles might need to make a conscious effort to keep his clothes on. His limbs suddenly feel too gangly, mouth too slack, neck slicked with sweat but he wants to rub himself all over this guy and let him lick him clean.

The hard on he’s sporting has wilted some, all thanks to Throat Puncher which he’s okay with because the last thing he wants to do is make an awkward boner impression on Bouncer Hale.

It’s not even a conscious decision that Stiles is going to go over there to talk to him before he’s suddenly standing metres away, just in time to hear, “Excuse me would you like an orally stimulated orgasm?” from the very same guy who’d dragged Danny onto the dance floor earlier.

Bouncer Hale doesn’t even look away from the crowd, but his eyebrows crinkle together like he can’t believe anybody could possibly say something that stupid.

“No,” he replies scowling and Stiles half shimmies, half pushes the last few inches towards him, licking his lips in preparation to speak.

But someone grips his elbow with enough strength to jerk him to a sudden standstill. It takes a frightening amount of time to get all of his limbs into order before he glances at the man keeping him from mounting Bouncer Hale in front of everybody.

Stiles doesn’t recognise him, but he does recognise the way that his eyes are practically burning a hole through his lips.

“I wanna melt in your mouth not in your hand,” he all but purrs reaching out to palm Stiles’ ass as he tries to reel him in closer.

Stiles head is pounding as he pushes away. “How about neither?” he retorts, yanking his arm free with enough force that he nearly lands flat on his ass.

If it weren’t for the fact that he seems to hit some kind of wall on the way down. He’s breathing heavily as he thanks his lucky stars even going so far as to reach behind and touch what literally prevented his ass from wiping out on the dance floor.

The wall is breathing. And then he comes to the very decided conclusion that he’s actually half draped over a person like a drunken fool and thrashes madly in an attempt to get upright.

He only half succeeds, if elbowing a very muscled stomach and stamping on an innocent foot can be classified as successful. The decidedly not-wall person lets out a grunt of irritated surprise and Stiles twists his neck in hasty apology, trying to duck out of the personal space he’s invaded only to come face to face with Bouncer Hale looming over him.

“I didn’t do anything!” he squeaks, flushing when Hale wraps a strong arm around his chest seizing his front shirt, recovering quickly from Stiles’ spasming attack in order to stop him escaping when he turns to make a run for it. “Sorry about your foot! I swear it’s nothing personal.”

“How did you get in here?” Hale barks, which hey rude much? “Jailbait never get past Boyd.”

“Hey!” Stiles protests because Hale might not be throwing him back in with the other fishes, but it sure as hell seems like he’s about to be thrown out the door. “I’m twenty one, asshole.”

Hale doesn’t even wait for proof just starts lugging him towards the exit and Stiles is way too drunk to fight against him. Not that he’d be able to succeed sober, anyway. Panic bubbles in his chest at the thought of stumbling home alone, drunk with nothing but thoughts of Heather and an epic montage of Celine Dion’s All By Myself rattling around his brain.

This time when he slams his heel into Hale’s foot, it’s entirely on purpose.

“What the fuc…?!” Hale barely has the time to protest before Stiles is shoving ID into his stupidly handsome face.

“My licence fucker,” Stiles snaps, wiggling it in his face for good measure wondering how he can get away with pressing their bodies as closely as possible.

Bouncer Hale’s eyebrows knit together as he pauses, grip loosening on Stiles’ shirt as he unceremoniously shoves his ID under some lighting as if trying to prove that it’s fake. 

“It’s real, okay?” Stiles mutters which kind of sucks as arguments go so he adds, “My dad’s a county Sheriff. I literally cannot afford to be breaking any laws.”

Hale looks up, staring at his face in silent contemplation. Stiles stares back openly, greedily taking in every inch of the glorious sight before him. If he wasn’t so pissed he’d probably be basking in the fact that he practically had Bouncer Hale’s hands all over him.

“That can’t be your real name,” he finally replies, scowling like he’d rather yank his eyeballs out than carry on a conversation but his curiosity wins him over. Stiles snatches his licence back, even more irritated by the fact that he’s still willing to bone this guy into the mattress and his attitude is only making his pants tighter. Stiles is certain that hottie Hale needs to unwind and some furious hate sex would be just the thing to do it.

“My friends call me Stiles,” he says, emphasis on the word friends but Hale’s suddenly much closer than he realises and he gets a subtle whiff of his aftershave and a sudden urge to rub all over his body like a cat.

“Derek,” he replies when Stiles flushes, heart beating like a rabbit’s in his chest as he physically resists the urge to press himself all up against that muscle. “Hale,” he adds in afterthought creating as much distance between them as possible as if he’s suddenly become aware that Stiles is a particularly pungent brand of mouldy cheese. “Don’t let me catch you causing trouble again tonight.”

And then Derek Hale goes back to his sentry duty unaware of the lusting trail of people eagerly chasing after him.

Stiles watches his ass move in the tight jeans he’s sporting with an open mouth, because he can be both offended and aroused at the same time.

But mostly offended.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

“Derek’s an asshole,” Stiles bemoans when he finally makes it safely to the bar again without anyone pinching his ass. Erica promptly drops the drink she’s holding, glass smashing across the floor as her head whips up sharply like a lion sniffing a fresh carcass.

“Whoa!” Stiles cries leaning back in case she’s planning to coerce him into motorboating her again. “Are you drunk?”

“Where did you hear that?” she demands reaching over the counter to seize his shirt and pull him toward her. Stiles is really starting to think the employees at Wolfsbane have something against his clothing choices.

“Um, do you not know Derek?” he asks, trying unsuccessfully to unwrap her fingers. “You know tall, broody, Bouncer dude getting hit on by nearly everyone in this club? Derek Hale?”

He even goes to helpfully point him out to her, but Erica looks terrified and quickly slaps a manicured hand over his mouth. “Oh my God, shut up! Shut up!”

It takes all of the grown up points he’s accumulated over the years to not lick her hand in retaliation, but his eyes do widen at being roughly silenced. “Look we have a thing here, not to broadcast our names too much.”

Erica looks at him carefully before deciding he can be trusted to speak and removes her hand whilst the other girl working the bar frantically scurries to clean up her mess.

“You told me your name in the first five seconds I met you and Boyd’s wearing a name tag. How is that not broadcasting?” he pushes.

Erica looks like she’s seconds away from setting him on fire. “Jesus fucking Christ, Stiles. Just call him Hale, okay?”

Stiles wordlessly accepts this as Erica law, but only because she slides yet another free drink across the counter to buy his silence.

“Hey, there you are!” comes a familiar voice just as he raises the glass to his lips. He turns and it’s Isaac followed by Scott and Allison and he tips the drink down his throat in greeting because he knows how to stay classy.

“Hey,” he gasps as the alcohol burns down his throat. “Just had a run in with Derek.”

Isaac let outs a garbled sound and drops his glass onto the floor and this time Stiles’ entire shoes are drenched with alcohol as it shatters everywhere. Oh joy.

“Stiles!” Erica nearly shrieks, thwacking him over the back of the head because he never could resist poking the metaphorical bear.

“God, fine! Hale, okay?”

The cougar on his right leans into him suddenly, martini glass in one hand sloshing over the lip of the glass and spattering the right leg of his jeans. “What about Hale?” she demands slurring her words slightly, eyes unfocused as she listens intently for any information.

“Nothing,” he replies leaning in the opposite direction lest she empty the entire contents of her drink onto his crotch. “Weather’s shit. Might hail this week.”

She loses interest after that and Stiles inspects his alcohol soaked body with a sigh. Of course, this is where his life choices have gotten him, right down to this booze drenched moment.

“Why are we here again?” he wonders. “Who the fuck even found this club?”

“I work here weekends,” Isaac pipes up from where he and Scott are trying to pick up glass shards off of the floor, sounding distinctly offended.

“Then what’s the problem with… Hale?” he demands finally sensing a pattern between the word Derek and finding his body immersed in alcohol.

“Look he’s a bit… popular. If you haven’t already noticed,” Isaac explains. “So he doesn’t um, give out his first name. Usually.”

The look he and Erica gives makes Stiles feel uncomfortable and that has nothing to do with the fact he’s literally sitting in alcohol.

“Whatever,” he mutters, hating the way his tongue feels thick and heavy like he suddenly can’t speak. “I need another drink. Preferably not all over me.”

 

\---------------------------------------------------

 

It’s another drink in before Stiles realises that he’s close enough to touch Derek again. The girls onstage have been performing steadily for what feels like an eternity and Derek’s literally patrolling the outer edges of the club like it's life or death importance before finally stopping on the fringe with his arms crossed.

Stiles isn’t sure if he’s aware that the nearly every pair of eyes follow him as he goes.

“I think you totally owe me an apology, dude,” he says when he reaches his side.

Derek’s jaw ticks like he’s resisting the urge to lunge at him but he says nothing, stops this girl who’s wearing one of those cheesy twenty one tiaras from snapping a photo of him behind his back with just a look. She and her friends actually slink away, disappointed.

“Wow, so charming,” he notes when Derek continues to ignore him and the girl's dreams of documenting that fine ass which he just crushed. “C’mon, admit you were wrong. Grow with me, man.”

Derek snorts. “I’ll kick you out of here,” he threatens, but the warning falls a bit flat when the tiara girl darts past, drunkenly pinching his butt before he can stop her.

Stiles cracks up laughing. “I think that was karma pinching your ass there. See what happens when you don’t grow, big guy?”

Derek moves so suddenly Stiles isn’t even aware he’s being pushed against the wall until it’s too late. His first response is arousal before he realises popping boners on Derek is not okay so he tries to cover up his first response with the fear of suddenly being beaten to a bloody pulp.

He can see most of the patrons staring at them over his shoulder, probably waiting for the moment Derek tears him apart and he swallows heavily, resists the urge to reach out and touch.

Derek’s breath fans across his face, they’re that close and Stiles is wrapped up in the way he feels against him, the way he smells.

“I was wrong,” Derek says in a low voice. “Now fuck off, Stiles, before I eject your from the premises.”

It isn’t until Derek’s disappearing amongst the throng of bodies that Stiles realises that he remembered his name.

 

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

He’s on yet another drink when he finally spots Derek again, arms folded broodingly as he looms over anyone stupid enough to try and get close like Stiles did. And because he’s a sucker for a challenge, Stiles dances through the crowd to get to him.

“What exactly do you think is going to happen here?” he asks when he finally reaches Derek. “People actually enjoying themselves?”

“God forbid,” Derek deadpans and shit, it takes Stiles a moment to realise he’s actual cracking an honest to God joke.

“So there is a sense of humour in there,” he says unable to resist reaching out to gently poke a finger against Derek’s temple. He doesn’t flinch like Stiles noticed he did when that topless lady tried to jump into his arms several minutes before hand but he does look surprised at the unexpected touch.

Derek opens his mouth to say something, but his eyes narrow just before someone presses themselves solidly against Stiles' back, namely grinding into his ass.

He curses his luck when Derek stiffens, jaw clenching as he immediately turns away, allowing Stiles and this random creep privacy. He doesn't permit himself a moment to mourn the loss of Derek's attention but moves to throw the guy off instead. He's determined though, like a parasite and just snakes an arm around Stiles’ waist to hold him down, preventing escape.

“Your ass…” the guy groans wetly against his neck and Stiles starts thrashing wildly, but it’s like being tied down with cement blocks. His heart stutters out a panicked rhythm in his chest.

“Dude, fuck off,” he snaps, struggling fitfully against the grip until Derek is suddenly there looming over them, eyes dangerous and Stiles swears for a moment, flashing a different colour altogether.

“Let go,” he says calmly, but with a scary calm that screams imminent murder. The guy drops Stiles like a sack of potatoes before he staggers off into the crowd and the arm restricting his chest disappears so that he can breathe again.

“Thanks,” he offers grudgingly. “But I had that handled.”

“Sure, you did,” he replies smugly and when someone slams into Stiles’ shoulder nearly knocking him over, Derek politely steadies him with a hand on his hip.

Stiles feels it burn all the way down to his toes.

 

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

 

Lydia drags him onto the dance floor a little while later and he loses sight of Derek again. Not that they were having a particularly life affirming conversation but hey, Stiles knows how to lay some groundwork, build up a foundation.

Plus, he doesn’t trust himself not to articulate how much he wants to get a hand in Derek’s pants. So there’s that to contend with.

He doesn’t see Derek for at least an hour and it saps his buzz so much that Lydia and Danny quickly banish him from their presence. So he moseys on over to the bar, avoids Erica’s enthusiasm to make another one of her special drinks, downs another shot and has to politely manoeuvre an overly eager girl out of his lap all while trying not to think too much about Derek and his stupid face.

But it feels like only two seconds later that Stiles is spotting Derek and his stupid face helping Boyd kick out an overly intoxicated patron who’s belting Miley Cyrus’ Wrecking Ball at the top of his lungs and attempting to swing off a nearby pole.

For once it’s like Derek is actually aware of the number of people watching him because his eyes suddenly snap up like somebody called his name out loud. Their eyes meet across the crowded room and Stiles has to physically turn in his seat to avoid spontaneously combusting.

His skin feels flushed and he downs another drink without looking at the contents. But he can still feel Derek’s eyes on his back and it’s a much bigger buzz than anything he can tip down his throat.

 

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

Scott takes pity on him and drags him back onto the dance floor eventually, steering him clear of Lydia and Danny, the former who's still giving him dirty looks. He doesn’t mean to bring them down. The last thing he wants to be is a buzz kill but he’s just really not feeling it tonight, besides the burning urge to be feeling Derek Hale all over.

So he lets Scott feel like he’s including him for a bit, sways to the beat of the music as everything he just drank sweats out through his pores. But eventually he can’t breathe, the music is pretty shitty to dance to anyway and there’s way too many bodies pressing in at once so he pushes his way to freedom.

He gets stuck halfway, somehow wedged between this couple that refuse to let go of one another for even a second, namely trapping him there for what’s shaping up to be all eternity. His fate has been sealed.

Someone spots his distress signal of scrambling limbs and hooks a hand under his armpit before essentially tugging him free. The tingle starting in his fingers tells him it’s Derek. Of course it’s Derek and Stiles doesn’t even care how much of an ass he’s made of himself tonight because Derek totally remembered his name.

Stiles knows how to make an impression, alright?

Derek releases him after it’s certain he won’t be dragged off accidentally again and rolls his eyes like he can’t believe anyone can be so bad at clubbing. Stiles would resent that except now he can claim yet another area of his body that Derek’s had his hands all over and that is a wondrous thing.

Even if it is his armpit.

“I’m starting to think I should’ve put you out of your misery and kicked you out hours ago,” Derek says dryly much to Stiles' everlasting delight.

“But now we get to share our misery together in precious little moments like these,” he retorts, only half flirting.

Okay, seventy five percent flirting. He might have even fluttered some eyelashes. Jesus.

And Derek just gives him this look like he knows exactly what he’s thinking- and seems to be perfectly okay with it.

Stiles swallows heavily as he stares into Derek’s eyes and he just knows, knows it like he’s never really known anything before that if he just moves an inch forward to press his mouth against his, that Derek will _let _him.__

There’s a lot of power in that thought and for a second he’s completely blown away. The realisation makes him giddy and he grins, allowing a brief period to savour the feeling before he makes his move. He barely takes a step forward, the cords of Derek’s muscles tensing as if he’s trying to keep still before another familiar voice interrupts.

“Stiles!” Heather calls as she spots him from the group that she’s standing in nearby and unceremoniously launches at him, lips smashing over his slackened mouth. He swears he can hear Derek’s sharp inhale and he feels like he’s been kneed in the balls when she plasters herself all over him like nothing is wrong.

His mouth parts under the familiar pressure without even realising he’s doing it but then his brain catches up and gently pushes her away, feeling suddenly sick. Throwing up on her seems like an appropriate revenge for what’s she’s done.

“Hey now,” he says stealing Scott’s obviously effective mediation technique as he takes a precautionary step back. “We’re not together anymore.”

But Heather is either too drunk to notice or sober enough not to care because she’s already waving at someone else, disappearing into the crowd and Stiles, weirdly, is totally fine with that.

He spots Lydia a few metres away on the dance floor wrapped around her sweaty and now shirtless boyfriend who has his face buried in the crook of her neck, being disgustingly cute. She’s giving him her usual disdainful look but this time she’s shaking her head like he’s the biggest fucking moron on the planet.

And that’s when he looks over and realises that Derek is gone.

 

\---------------------------------------------------

 

The club is broadcasting closing time is nigh when Stiles finally admits defeat and settles at the bar. It feels like he’s been looking for Derek for hours and it’s probably most likely that he’s finally said yes to one of the millions of ridiculous pick up lines, disappearing off for a good thorough hook up. And that is fucking depressing.

Danny’s already left with some guy though not the same one who hit on Stiles hours ago, Jackson's taking body shots off Lydia’s creamy white stomach and Scott, Allison and Isaac are out on the dance floor completely wrapped up in each other.

And Stiles is going to die alone.

Naturally. 

Erica snakes past without a word to him as she hands a drink to another customer. “Hey,” he calls when she goes stomping past again. “Can you get me a…”

“You’re cut off,” she snaps not even letting him finish as she starts refilling another glass clinking it so hard on the beer tap that it chips.

He stares blankly ahead for a moment before settling into the misery that the night has descended into. What a shitfest. He’s flushed and thirsty, his shoes are sticking to the floor and his entire left leg has gone stiff from all of the alcohol upended all over him. The front of his shirt is all loose and stretched from so many people grabbing it throughout the night and he’s drenched in rapidly cooling sweat that’s even trickling into his eyelids.

His mouth tastes like ass and he has the feeling that his hair is standing up in all directions.

The night is essentially the fuckup he expected from the get go.

He might feel better about it all if he was at least nursing a beer at this point, but apparently the universe has deemed even that small blessing as too much of a victory.

He lets it sink in for a couple minutes before deciding that he refuses to let shit go down this way. The rest of the night will not be wasted.

It’s not that hard to find the employee entrance especially after watching all of those gorgeous women emerge earlier so all he does is wait for Boyd to be distracted enough by some drunk and disorderlys that he can slip inside unnoticed.

He gets caught immediately. At first he thinks it’s Derek in the bad lighting and his chest clenches painfully, but then he realises that it’s the girl who survived his death glare and of course she must be his sister.

“What the hell?” she exclaims and Stiles waves his hands out in surrender.

“I’m just looking for Derek,” he explains, voice sounding booming in the muted silence. Too late he notices the glass Derek’s sister is holding and he watches her eyes widen in shock as she drops it.

It shatters but not before it saturates his crotch in alcohol. Of course.

“Oh shit, sorry,” she gasps looking like she wants to pat him down but decides against it. “But, but…”

“What is with everyone and drenching me in alcohol tonight?” he wonders aloud already resigning himself to the fact that he’ll be going home sticky, alone and unsatisfied.

“Is Derek around?” he asks again. “Or…”

The 'or' hangs in the air between them, weighted with the knowledge that whatever Stiles thinks might be happening he might have already missed his chance.

“He’s in his office,” Laura gushes out wildly as if she’s expecting him to take off running. The expression on her face is making the idea very tempting but she clamps her hands down on his shoulders, ignoring the broken glass all around them as she all but steers Stiles down the hallway.

“I’m Laura,” she says as way of introduction. “Are you drunk?” she demands when Stiles staggers under the weight of her arms.

“Stiles. And not really,” he grumbles. “Erica cut me off after my ex kissed me.”

“But you’re single now?” she questions, fishing and Stiles kind of has no idea how to respond to that but it doesn’t really matter because they’ve already stopped at the door to Derek’s office.

The sign only says Hale so Stiles cannot puzzle out if Derek’s just some glorified security guard or if maybe he’s the manager here. But he stops thinking anything when Laura opens the door and pushes him inside without even giving him the chance to collect himself.

Derek’s sitting at the desk surrounded by paper work and Stiles’ mouth runs dry at the frustrated little quirk of his mouth. He looks up at their entry, eyes focusing on Stiles immediately before dropping to the state of his pants and pursing his lips in undoubtable anger.

“I thought I said no more trouble,” he says tightly looking pointedly at Laura until she quickly removes her hands from his shoulders.

Stiles realises what he must look like and flushes but manages to fold his arms, muttering petulantly, “You’re not the boss of me.”

Laura gasps out a strangled laugh just as Derek shoots her a death glare. “Oh Der, he’s perfect,” she says. “This is just…”

“Get out,” Derek snaps and Laura, just laughs and laughs and laughs some more when Stiles tries to follow.

“Not you,” Derek says, sighing with a pinched expression as Laura laughs again. Stiles is terrified and horny and really, really confused so it’s only fair that he slam the door in Laura’s laughing face.

He turns back to face Derek listening to the distant sound of Laura cackling as she makes her way down the hall and he’s practically burning up inside with embarrassment. If he wasn’t so buzzed this would be ten times worse.

“Look,” he mutters taking a seat opposite Derek’s desk. “I don’t know what kind of establishment is running here, but Erica just cut me off for no reason and I’ve been trying to find you for over an hour…”

“You seemed busy,” Derek cuts in then quickly closes his mouth and looks away like he can’t believe he just said that. And that’s-

That’s _jealousy _in his voice. Totally jealousy.__

“I’m not busy now,” he garbles then realises how it might seem like he’s just jumping from available people to the next. “I mean, she’s my ex and we kind of just broke up and I’m sure you probably noticed she was really drunk. I guess I’m pretty drunk too…”

“But not that drunk!” he exclaims when Derek’s expression darkens. “I can totally make responsible decisions!”

Derek doesn’t seem convinced. “I saw you punch that guy in the balls as soon as you walked in here. Not too long after you motorboated my employee.”

Stiles’ brain tries to catch up with him and fails. “You were watching me?” he demands, amazed and even he can’t prevent the shit eating grin that splits open his face.

Derek clears his throat and looks back at the papers on his desk with an ill-tempered, ‘No,” but Stiles has already figured out what’s what and can see how flustered Derek is trying to pretend he isn’t.

“You totally saw me from afar and wanted to bone me,” Stiles crows immensely pleased and even more so when Derek’s face snaps up, scowling through his unease. “Wait, you own this club?”

“Laura and I are partners,” Derek replies looking relieved for the subject change. “But yes.”

“And you totally used jailbait as an excuse to get my name,” he continues nearly exploding with the need to scramble over the desk just so he can lay a big wet one on Derek’s mouth.

“Stiles, you look practically sixteen,” he counters, rudely and hey Stiles may look a bit young but that in no way means he’s inexperienced here. Some people have told him he has an ass that would make Jesus cry.

“But you still told me your name anyway,” Stiles retorts eagerly putting all the pieces together. “And you never tell people that, I’ve got the layers of alcohol people have spilled on me when I said as much as proof.”

Derek’s face is having some kind of internal war with itself where he’s resisting the urge to actually smile. “You’re paying for the glasses they broke.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees because Derek’s totally into him and he’s feeling fucking magnanimous. "Send me the bill." 

He rises to his feet so that he can slide over the desk and into Derek’s lap. It takes some finagling and he smashes his knee against the woodwork but he finally ends up nestled against Derek’s thighs. His arms encircle Stiles' waist to keep him there while his leg throbs in pain.

“Sticks the landing,” he whispers almost to himself and when Derek rubs a hand gently across the tender area the pain seems to almost vanish instantly. 

Stiles would normally set aside brain time to contemplate that but Derek licks his lips and Stiles can’t for the life of him figure out why he shouldn’t be staring. “So,” he murmurs, watching Derek’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows heavily.

Derek barely has the opportunity to tip his head back and nod his permission before Stiles is getting his hands in his hair and bringing their mouths together. It’s dirty and messy and Derek practically surges into his mouth with the enthusiasm of a charging bull, teeth nipping his lower lip and tugging before he gets his tongue in Stiles’ mouth.

There’s no finesse to it but that’s what Stiles needs, the burning heat helping him grind his hips down into Derek’s crotch with reckless abandon.

And it’s so perfect. It’s so-

It’s all downhill from there.

Derek seizes the back of his thighs and lifts him onto the desk, scattering paperwork everywhere as he lowers his body onto Stiles', frantically removing clothes in a state of efficiency that leaves Stiles naked, impatiently aroused and leaking precome all over Derek’s exposed hip.

Although, he’s happy to see his alcohol retaining pants go flying.

Stiles moans into the sensation, tries to wrap his legs around Derek’s waist as he’s frantically tugging off his jeans, but Derek’s moving too much for Stiles to get an accurate lock on him so he helplessly cants his hips upwards hoping for friction as he gasps into Derek’s mouth.

“Jesus Stiles,” he groans tugging his ass closer until they’re completely flush together once he finally removes his pants. And thank God because Stiles is literally about to pop a blood vessel out of sexual frustration.

“Yeah,” he agrees wanting to get a hand around Derek but unable to detach himself long enough to do so. Instead he settles for pushing their bodies closer and getting his hands all over Derek’s ass which is a fair trade.

“God your _mouth, _” Derek whispers and it feels like he’s suddenly been doused in cold water, then kicked in the gut and stamped on repeatedly. Stiles tenses because of course even Derek isn’t immune to noticing the potential for a blowjob.__

He knows the little shaky breath he lets out next sounds pained, but in honest truth he doesn’t mind the idea of getting his mouth around Derek as much as he normally would. He’s sort of resigned himself to the fact that everyone he’s ever going to hook up with is going to want to put something in his mouth at one point or another.

He holds back a heavy sigh and starts trying to slide off the table so that he can get into routine sex position one- on his knees. But Derek lets out a growl like he thinks Stiles is trying to go somewhere and pushes a hand against his chest to stop him, kissing him hungrily on the mouth before descending into the v of Stiles legs first, gently coaxing them open.

Stiles is so surprised to find himself staring at Derek on his knees that his legs fall apart automatically, already flustered and lost in the sensation of Derek’s hands all over him. He can’t stop staring and now it finally makes sense why everybody wants him on his knees so much. The sight of it, of Derek willingly kneeling for him, fuck, about to take him into his _mouth_ \- it really, really does something to him.

“Fuck Derek,” he pants and yeah that’s definitely an embarrassing whimper and Derek hasn’t even _done _anything yet.__

He smirks, licking his lips dangerously before his mouth comes down over Stiles’ cock, licking gently at the head before pulling him in easily and swallowing. And this is definitely a turn of events.

“Oh shit,” he gasps, twisting his fingers to ghost through Derek’s hair as he tries not to buck up into the burning heat that’s got him feeling like his eyes should be rolling into the back of his head. It’s undeniably the last thing that he expected to happen right now and somehow that makes the reaction to mouth stimulus all the sweeter.

Derek hollows his cheeks, looking up at him through his eyelashes and Stiles can already feel the telltale tightening in his balls that warns an impending orgasm. He pats Derek’s shoulder in forewarning but all that gets is Derek seizing his thighs and yanking Stiles forward, pulling his cock deeper down his throat so that his nose is briefly pressed against his stomach.

Stiles lets out a strangled whine, attempts to thrash in his grip but Derek’s hands are like iron bands and before he can even think of trying to hold off and make this last, his orgasm crashes over him.

It’s like he floats away for a couple minutes because by the time he comes back into himself he has no idea what’s happening besides Derek not letting off even as Stiles pulses in waves through the aftershock. He just swallows and swallows and takes everything.

Stiles can’t even remember the last time he blew his load so quickly, let alone had a blowjob that didn’t require him to open his mouth for no other reason than to shout obscenities.

His thighs are shaking with effort but he doesn’t drop his hands from Derek’s hair, they’re almost so tangled that he’s not sure he even _can _and finally Derek pulls off his now sensitive cock, licking his lips as he tastes Stiles on them.__

He smirks at Stiles’ dazed expression and doesn’t hesitate to tug him closer so that he can smash their mouths together.

“If you don’t put your dick in me…” he starts to threaten when they separate for air and Derek laughs.

“Patience,” he says rising easily to his feet as he crowds Stiles against the desk again, pushing his leaking cock against his lower stomach.

And it’s totally right in front of him now, so of course, Stiles hastily gets a hand around him just because he has to touch.

“No, wait,” Derek hisses, but Stiles is tilting his neck up to look at him through lidded eyes and Derek-

Goes utterly still. Stiles’ brain is only just catching up, but he doesn’t even get the chance to let go before Derek is making this sound; this punched in the gut, winded noise and his mouth comes down over the column of Stiles’ exposed neck, sucking a hickey the size of which could probably be seen from space.

Stiles makes a mental note to grab a scarf to wear to his classes tomorrow but groans wetly when Derek licks over the mark he’s created, rutting shallowly against Stiles’ hip again.

“Derek,” he grunts and Jesus, he’s resorted to begging now. “Please.”

It’s highly gratifying to watch Derek practically wrench out a nearby drawer in search of lube and condoms, fumbling through it with a flushed erection that looks like it’s bordering on painful.

Stiles rubs at himself distractedly, trying to coax little Stiles back to life as he watches what looks like the beginning of an office porno or something. Derek returns to the gap between his legs, slipping over the papers they’ve scattered all over the floor and Stiles laughs before wrapping his arms around Derek’s sweaty neck.

He leans forward to lick at Derek’s stubble following the curve of his jaw all the way from the shell of his ear to the corner of his mouth and Derek all but shudders beneath the teasing touch before the snick of a cap opening disturbs the silence and Derek starts to hastily coat his fingers.

Stiles kisses him on the mouth and tastes himself there with a following twinge of arousal and his pupils must be blown so wide right now but he doesn’t even care. Because Derek’s fingers are brushing against his asshole, gently probing the ring of muscle and Stiles moans into his mouth as he eases a finger inside.

The lube is cold at first but Derek’s fingers are warm as fuck, rapidly pooling heat in his lower belly. It’s been a while since anyone but his own fingers have done this. Heather hadn’t been interested in trying anything past generic sex and it’s always a shock to have someone else probing him gently before finding his prostate faster than he can.

Stiles practically writhes in Derek’s grip, accidentally kicking him in the thigh so Derek uses his free hand to push Stiles flat against the table, physically holding him down as he fingers his ass.

The holding down thing seems to get Stiles going because he’s lying there staring at Derek’s flexing arm muscles with an open mouth before he realises that little Stiles has finally joined the party again.

“Hello,” Derek growls sounding extremely pleased with himself and did he literally acknowledge Stiles’ erection just now? Stiles doesn’t get a chance to think about the fluttering that forms in his chest because Derek’s hand moves down to his stomach, holding him still as he sucks Stiles into his mouth again for a proper greeting, finger still stretching him wide open.

“You’re killing me,” Stiles complains reaching out to tweak Derek’s exposed nipple. He pulls off with a surprised sound, pushing in a second finger as Stiles tugs his chest forward to soothe over the hurt.

And then because he’s a man of equality he moves over to lave at Derek’s other nipple, feeling it harden beneath his tongue. He gets a hand on Derek’s ass again, squeezing gently before his fingers slip through his cheeks brushing against his entrance because he has a natural curiosity and can't resist.

Derek tips his head forward and moans against Stiles’ chest, pushing a third finger inside him with much more force than intended as his stubble scrapes roughly across Stiles' chest.

“Okay, I’ll be good,” Stiles promises, slowly withdrawing his hand. “Next time.”

He realises how stupid that sounds but Derek is already nodding frantically in agreement. “Next time.”

“You can probably fuck me now,” he adds when Derek seems to get lost in fingering him open, glazed eyes watching the repetitive movement. Stiles brushes a hand against his flushed face and Derek pulls the fingers into his mouth, licking around them obscenely just as he removes his own fingers from his ass.

When Derek’s still got Stiles’ fingers in his mouth as he slicks up his cock, rolling on the condom, Stiles has a lightheaded moment where he almost tells him to ditch the latex altogether.

Thankfully, Derek doesn’t give him a moment to articulate the thought before he’s releasing Stiles’ fingers with a wet pop and gently pushing past the tight ring of Stiles inner muscle as he moves inside him.

Stiles tips his head back and groans at the feeling of finally being filled again just as Derek makes this broken noise and bottoms out. He doesn’t move while Stiles lays there gasping and adjusting to the size but he does bring a hand around Stiles’ cock, jerking him off leisurely as a way to distract him.

What he doesn’t expect is Stiles to twitch and clench viciously down on his cock.

“Fucking Goddammit, Stiles!” he moans, pumping him for several more strokes before releasing him altogether as his entire frame shakes with the exertion of not thrusting inside.

“Then don’t touch my cock, dickweed,” he crows taking gasping breaths as he struggles to relax his body again.

This time Derek reaches out to tweak his nipple and Stiles has to laugh at that because this really couldn't get any more perfect.

But then he gives Derek the signal to move and-

Holy Jesus fuck, yes it _can _.__

Derek fucks into him with brutal strength, long inhuman strokes that bring him deeper into Stiles’ body than he thinks anyone’s ever been before and his back arches into it, scrambling to find purchase on Derek’s biceps as he moves along with each thrust.

He pants into Derek’s neck, licks along the tendon there as Derek’s hands settle on Stiles’ hips holding him in place as he suddenly wrenches Stiles upwards off of the table, hands reaching around to support his back as he essentially lets gravity slide him back onto Derek’s cock.

They both groan as Derek pulls them, stumbling backwards into his desk chair so that Stiles is sitting on his lap, Derek's cock buried to the hilt and loving every second of it.

He grinds his hips distractedly before realising that Derek changed positions so that he can watch.

“You want me to ride you?” he gasps licking into Derek’s open mouth before he can answer but takes the way Derek bucks into him as a positive response.

He pulls his mouth away so that he can watch when he raises himself up, the slick slide of Derek’s cock making him whine from the loss before he drops back down.

Derek’s eyes are so wide that Stiles brings himself to do it again and again even when his arms are getting weak and noodly. It’s fuck, it’s so so good and Stiles loves every second of it.

He loves it even more when Derek senses he’s struggling and starts lifting him off his cock for him, letting him fuck himself back down.

His heart is pounding and he’s essentially rubbing precome all over Derek’s abs but it’s so so worth it when the friction becomes too much and he’s tipping his throat back in exultation.

Derek groans, eyes flashing colours, nails feeling sharper than usual when he comes inside him with a broken sound.

They sit there for a minute, sweaty, breathing heavily before Stiles finally finds the words to speak.

“Did you just come from me baring my neck?” he asks, incredulous and still so, so very hard as he shifts against Derek’s cock.

Derek’s answer is to twist his hips up into him, forcing his cock deeper as Stiles frantically pushes back and tries to keep up the friction. Somehow, Derek’s still hard enough to keep fucking him so he picks Stiles up by his thighs, helpfully wrapping them around his hips as he deposits him back onto the table, the altered angle hitting directly on his prostate.

Stiles garbles incoherently, nails scratching at Derek’s back as he resumes his pace, wrapping one hand around his cock.

Stiles may have lasted longer, but he’s got nothing on this when Derek literally wrenches his orgasm out of him without warning, tipped over the edge by a particularly rough scrape of stubble underneath his chin as he fucks him.

He clenches as he shoots all over Derek’s chest, painting heavily as Derek captures his lips in a messy kiss.

Stiles almost doesn’t want to let go when he pulls out, tying off the condom and chucking it into the bin as he bends over to scoop up Stiles’ clothes.

For a terrifying second Stiles thinks he’s going to kick him out just like that but Derek merely uses his shirt to clean up some of the splattered come off of Stiles' chest before cleaning his own.

“Hey, I need that,” he protests a little too late after Derek’s basically defiled his clothing.

Derek reaches around and tugs him closer by seizing his ass, leaning down to kiss his neck.

“You’re a mess,” he whispers and Stiles actually shudders in delight at the sensation of his mouth at his ear. It’s not long before he realises that Derek’s right, he is a total mess. His skin is already pink with stubble burn, his mouth swollen and bruised and Derek’s literally left handprints.

Like _everywhere. ___

“Then why the hell did you ruin my shirt?” he complains without any heat.

Derek’s looking at the thoroughly debauched vision he must make with hungry, bedroom eyes. “Because I want you to wear mine,” he replies, already slipping his Wolfsbane shirt into Stiles’ open hands.

It hot, okay. Stiles doesn’t know why it’s hot, but it is and he’s totally swallowing heavily by the time he’s tugged Derek’s shirt over his head and pulled on Derek’s pants.

Derek’s already walked over to the nearest cupboard to retrieve the spare uniform he must keep there and Stiles gets to watch his ass as he starts getting dressed. He’s really hoping they see each other again because he’s kind of dying to fuck him.

It takes him too little time to get changed in Stiles opinion but when he turns around to face him and his eyes darkens at Stiles in his clothing, he finds he can’t summon enough energy to care.

“I have a bed,” he announces suddenly. “Given it’s a shitty dorm room bed, but it’s just a couple blocks from here.”

Derek frowns and for a second Stiles thinks he read this wrong, but then Derek’s thumbing distractedly at the rapidly bruising hickey on his neck and licking his lips.

“I did come from you exposing your throat like that,” he admits suddenly and Stiles has the feeling there’s much more to it then that but he’s too thoroughly ravished to process much at the moment.

"Noted,” he says. “Next time you ride me, I’ll let you put your hands all over it.”

Derek’s pupils blow wide and Stiles really hopes he doesn’t mean he’s into asphyxiation, but when his thumb presses harder into the blossoming bruise on Stiles throat, he thinks not. Derek just likes to leave _marks. ___

“Let’s go,” Derek grunts, seizing Stiles hand and all but wrenching him off of the table, nearly pulling his arm from its socket as he drags him out the door.

Stiles is happy to go along with it, especially when Derek doesn’t let go of his hand.  


\---------------------------------------------------------

 

They make it all the way down the hallway past the broken glass which Derek raises an eyebrow at until they're walking through the door back into the club that Derek mentions is closed by now-

And they’re all waiting for them.

Scott with his arms around Allison and Isaac, Erica wrapped around Boyd, Jackson, Lydia and Laura who looks like she’s just had Christmas early.

They're greeted with catcalls and whoops and someone starts chanting ‘Derek got laid!” or maybe it’s “Stiles got laid!” but either way Stiles feels like the ground should be swallowing them up pronto.

He throws a nervous glance at Derek, but his hand only tightens briefly on his own, not letting go, which has Stiles’ heart thumping wildly in his chest.

“Fuck off,” Derek growls and Stiles can’t resist winking when he hastily makes a quick exit before they can start bugging them for details.

Because they will. Stiles is certain they have no shame.

It’s only when the both of them are outside and walking back to his place, Derek’s hand still warm in his own that the reality of how awesome the night is sets in.

“Dude, we are going to fuck like rabbits and then I’m going to cook you breakfast,” he promises and Derek smirks for a second before tugging Stiles closer to run a hand over his ass.

“Why not both together?” he murmurs slyly.

And yep, Stiles definitely knows how to lay some groundwork. 

If the way Derek's smiling at him is anything to go by.


End file.
